Truth Be Told
by im-rogue-storm
Summary: While trying to end a city-wide killing spree, the X-Men find a girl who will lead them to Logan's past...
1. Prelude

Hello, All!  
  
This is my newest fic, primarily from my imagination but also somewhat form real life...no I'm kidding. I made it up, ok? It's NOT REAL. So don't panic. Once again, I warn the readers of this fic that this IS RATED R FOR A SPECIFIC REASON (violence, scary-ness, and all kinds of good stuff) so don't read it unless...you...want...to...AHEM  
  
Don't read it if you find yourself unable to handle certain elements such as violence and horror and/or kidnapping/etc...etc...etc...  
  
I'm rambling on, if you can't tell.  
  
Really, this fic shouldn't be any worse (in rating) then Runaway, if ya'll have read that. So just...hang in there, K? This is a work in progress!  
  
Dedicated to:  
  
Shadow Kat, because she's the first person I ever showed it to and she's a cool Kat. (  
  
  
  
Prelude-  
  
I remember Penny.  
  
I remember her, from that movie.  
  
What was it called?  
  
The Rescuers.  
  
I watched that movie when I was little.  
  
I remember crying when that mean, ugly lady...Medusa, called Penny homely.  
  
Mommy told me that meant 'ugly'.  
  
I always that Penny was pretty, even with her missing teeth.  
  
I cried because Penny started crying, and she was sad because no one would adopt her, and she didn't have any friends.  
  
The mice saved her, though, and she got a family and kept her teddy bear.  
  
I always liked Bianca, the girl mouse.  
  
She had a purple hat and sweet perfume.  
  
Bernard was chubby with a red shirt, but he could always make me laugh.  
  
He was scared of everything.  
  
But he still helped save Penny from Medusa and stupid old Snoops and their pet crocodiles.  
  
That used to be my favorite movie, The Rescuers.  
  
I haven't watched it since I was...how old?  
  
Maybe ten.  
  
Ten.  
  
That was six years ago.  
  
The old, worn colors of the movie box stare at me bleakly from the puddles of water, sadly begging me to watch, just one more time, as the mice band of heroes rescue little children and right all wrongs, making the world a better place.  
  
God, how wonderful that would be, to see the world as fixed and organized and good!  
  
How sweet to be able to slip back into the simplicity of childhood! To remember how it was to sit back in a comfortable couch, warm from the harsh bite of rain and wind, safe from the evils of reality, and simply laugh at a movie.  
  
Why did I take that for granted?  
  
Why did I let those innocent and safe years slip by like so many breaths?  
  
Why didn't I stop and save a few for a time such as this?  
  
I gasp in pain and inhale sharply, biting back a cry and whimpering pathetically.  
  
"Hush," she hisses clasping me against her chest as we submerge into the shadows, "I told you, not a sound."  
  
I swallow hard and blink, trying to regain serenity, forcing myself to ignore the hands twisting my arms behind my back.  
  
"Where are they?" she asks softly, and I glance up, the rain pelting my bare arms with freezing cold pain.  
  
I bite my lips, the familiar buzz of electric power coursing through my veins as I concentrate on the paths ahead of us, leading to the many jailhouses and guard stations.  
  
My heart speeds up dramatically and I can feel my eyes begin to flicker with heat as my powers kick in, the sounds of whispers and footsteps growing exceedingly loud in my ears.  
  
Suddenly, the hands on my wrists feel like melted metal on my bare skin, and I grit my teeth in agony, falling to my knees and pulling away from her, trying to keep my bare skin away from anything that could alert my senses.  
  
Of course, she assumes I'm attempting escape and grabs a handful of my hair, jerking my head back and snapping me back to reality.  
  
My arms feel as though someone has held an iron to them, and my ears still echo with the faintest of voices and sounds.  
  
"What do you think you're trying to do?" she asks bluntly, pulling me to my feet and gripping my chin with her hand.  
  
I can't look at her eyes.  
  
They're the only thing about her that's real right now...and that's dangerous.  
  
I avert my eyes and mumble, "They're in the second house. A few are in the third, but I think they're...they're dead."  
  
I feel her fingers tighten on my hair in anger (at me, at the soldiers, at life, I don't know) and I wince, almost reaching up in desperation, but I've learned in my short time with her that it's best to simply let her have her way.  
  
I kneel in the bitter rain and harsh wind in nothing but my sleeveless shirt and torn jeans, my jacket having been tossed long ago as something of a tease for my parents, letting them know I'm alive...but not well.  
  
Finally, she lets my head fall and takes my hand almost like a mother might with her child, and wordlessly brings me with her to the jailhouses.  
  
  
  
They say everyone has reason to their insanity.  
  
They say even the most insane of people have motives, a basis, a purpose for their psychotic doings.  
  
Even the most evil serial killer, the most well-hidden and caged person at the 'loony bin', the most wicked of war terrorists, has a cause for whatever they have done 'wrong' in the sight of their peers.  
  
Even I, a 'mutie', a 'freak', a complete and utter perfect example of 'the evil monstrosity that has beset our fair nation' am known to have reasoning behind my murderous and bloodthirsty attacks of late.  
  
I smile slightly as the girl lets out a tear-choked sigh, her entire form shaking with a mixture of intense fear and extreme cold.  
  
She's so afraid I can taste it, and I'm not the one with enhanced senses.  
  
It's just then that she backs into me and ceases breathing, eyes widening slightly as she chokes, "Someone's coming."  
  
Instantly, my muscles tense for combat, and my heart speeds, pumping aggression through my veins like some much-needed drug.  
  
I allow my hand to slip from hers and mutter a quick order to "Stay here," before wander innocently around the corner, feeling my skin begin to melt over me in what I know will be an appealing form for the poor soul about to meet me...  
  
  
  
The wall I lean against is cold, wet, and slick as I slide to a sitting position, my knees drawn to my chin, my heart trilling fearfully against my ribs as if it full-well intends to claw its way out of my chest.  
  
It sounds like the drum roll that comes before someone is shot to death or hung.  
  
I shudder at the thought, willing the chills scrabbling up my spine like spiders to go away, burying my face in my arms.  
  
I can't believe how cold I am.  
  
Really, the feeling has gone away—now the heavy raindrops and wind feel like pressure, since I've gone numb to most everything.  
  
I can hear her laughing and I swallow back a sudden mouthful of sour bile, tears stinging my eyes; the soldier is guffawing right along with her, conversing like she's just some pretty lady...just walking right into her well-laid trap.  
  
"Idiot," I croak sadly.  
  
It's then that the scream rings out, loud and clear for a moment, and then it is curtailed harshly.  
  
I imagine no one else gives it anymore thought.  
  
How many screams must they hear in this place, a sort of concentration camp for mutants?  
  
I hear more though, thanks to my 'powers'.  
  
These abilities of mine: oftentimes a blessing; lately, a curse.  
  
I hear him begging her through whatever she may have jammed in his mouth to silence him, pleading with her to spare him.  
  
I hear her reply (in her normal voice—she must have morphed back to her normal form) that she'll consider it, if he'll do her a favor.  
  
I cover my ears with my trembling hands and try to ignore the rest, but it's as if the words have been written across my mind:  
  
"Yes...please...I'll do anything!"  
  
She chuckles darkly, and I can almost visualize her standing off in some secluded corner where she must have taken him and knocked him down with his own gun. How surprised he must have been when he turned around and saw a mutant staring back at him!  
  
As if I'm standing there now, a witness to the entire scene, I watch him lying pitifully at her feet, sprawled on his back, some piece of cloth in his mouth, his eyes wide with surprise as he stares down the barrel of his gun.  
  
She smiles at him, "Oh good. I knew we'd see eye to eye."  
  
"W-what do you want?"  
  
"I want to know where I can find a few friends of mine..."  
  
Despite the poor man's circumstance, my heart jumps with hope; if she gets what she needs from him, will she forget about me and let me go at last?  
  
Immediately I feel guilty for thinking of myself when the guard is facing imminent death, but I still can't help but to save hope that she may get what she needs from him and just leave me alone.  
  
Just let me go home.  
  
Just stop hurting me.  
  
"Get what you need," I pray softly, "Please..."  
  
She doesn't.  
  
"I-I...I don't really...I'm just a...I'm not at the l-level of knowing where the p-prisoners are kept...I-I only guard out...outside...but...but maybe...maybe I can still help...?"  
  
Her laughter is shrill and harsh, a mockery to his begging statement, a derisive snicker at his feeble attempts.  
  
There is a single muffled shot, heard only by us three: she and I, and of course him.  
  
I pray it only took that one bullet, but she shoots him three more times.  
  
Just to make sure.  
  
I am trembling in terror, my face no longer hidden, but my eyes glued to the corner of space that I know will soon reveal her.  
  
I'm gasping for breath, choking on the sobs threatening to spill from my lips, fighting back the waves of nausea that crash over me.  
  
When she does finally appear, in disguise again, I can only stare at the ground in a fusion of alarm and horror, knowing for certain that I just can't look at her.  
  
  
  
I know I could leave her alone.  
  
I probably should let her calm down and just take her through the houses instead of around them.  
  
But why waste such an opportunity?  
  
She has too much innocence, anyway.  
  
By the time I have her convinced I've dropped the gun (it was empty by the time I'd shot the guy anyway), it's stopped raining enough for her to tell how many mutants are in each of the jail rooms.  
  
To show my appreciation, I half-drag her around the grounds to where I'd killed the stupid fool who'd followed me into the shadows mere moments before.  
  
Like I said before, for every action there's a motive.  
  
Mine is that I want to scare her.  
  
I want to see the look of disgust and sheer terror cross her face.  
  
I enjoy that.  
  
Why?  
  
Call me sick, but I like that sense of power that it gives me.  
  
All my life, people pushing me around and forcing me to be powerless, and now I finally have someone who I myself can do the same to.  
  
I can do whatever I want to her, and it isn't as if she can fight back.  
  
She's tried that before.  
  
She never tried again.  
  
As we round the corner of the second jailhouse, the smell of gunpowder and burning metal greets us both, sending her wheeling back into me.  
  
There's his body, lying exactly as I'd left it, with the gun tossed carelessly to the side.  
  
The girl is breathing shakily, backing up hastily and insistently, sliding in the mud and falling against me consistently.  
  
You'd think she'd learn.  
  
This scene reminds me of back when I was a teenager, a few years younger than her, with the same expression of confusion and horror, the same desperate plight to escape.  
  
~ They were shoving me into a black, pit-like room, calling after me reminders of what I was: "Freak!" "Monster!" "We don't what you, Creature!" "Get away from us, Mutie!"  
  
I'd seen a lot of 'mutie' children disappear through that doorway; fall through that pit, screaming, only to land minutes later into the arms of some awful creature that tore them to pieces.  
  
They came out again a few days later, pieced together but bloody and white- skinned, never speaking or eating; they always killed themselves later on.  
  
Now they'd caught me, and I was being shoved towards that inevitable hell, where some awful torture chamber obviously waited.  
  
Already, I could hear the shrieks of other unwanted children, and I gazed desperately back at my mother, screaming while tears streamed down my cheeks, "Momma! Please, Momma! Please save me, Momma! I'll be good! I promise, Momma! I'll try to change! Please, Momma! Please!"  
  
Her eyes clouded over and she turned her head in disgust just as my feet slid over the lip of the hole...  
  
~  
  
I shake my head, banishing the unwanted memory, trying to forget that day, and focus instead on the situation at hand.  
  
Here I stand now, much older than thirteen, with a helpless little child standing in that same place that I stood in those many years ago, with that same pleading look in her eyes, with her feet sliding ever nearer to the limp form of a man I myself slaughtered out of a rage bottled up for decades.  
  
And for a moment, I see that she still holds the purity and innocence that I once grasped.  
  
She still keeps a tight grip on sanity, never letting it slide between her fingers, like I did in her same situation.  
  
Does that make her better than me?  
  
Is that why HER parents want her still? Why they haven't shunned her or given up the search for her?  
  
Is that why few hate her, despite her obvious 'genetic disfiguration'?  
  
My blood boils with intense loathing, like I've never felt before, and one sentence, as if burned into my mind by an invisible cattle prod, is etched into my soul forever: "It's not fair."  
  
Infantile? Yes.  
  
Out of place? Perhaps.  
  
But I hiss them none the less, dropping to my knees and bringing her, whimpering, down with me, blinking back the tears that I never allowed to come when I was so much younger...  
  
  
  
I can almost swear I can smell the aroma of tears in the air.  
  
They're not mine.  
  
I know that.  
  
I stop whimpering for a minute and concentrate, sniffling as muddy rainwater begins to soak through my already drenched jeans.  
  
It's her.  
  
She's crying.  
  
For some reason, that makes me want to sob more.  
  
Why is she crying?  
  
I can't read emotions. Just because I have enhanced senses doesn't mean I'm a mind-reader.  
  
Does she feel bad for killing this man?  
  
Why would she? She's killed before, in front of me. Killed innocent children, without shedding a single tear.  
  
She laughed, in fact.  
  
Perhaps it's just all too much for her.  
  
She's fighting her tears, I can tell.  
  
Her grip on my arms is growing painful, her nails digging into my flesh; I wince and try to pull away.  
  
That seems to snap her out of her out-of-character trance.  
  
She jerks me roughly back to her and chuckles slightly, "What's the matter, Rachael?"  
  
The sound of my name on her lips sends nausea into my mouth; I hate the way she says it; it slips slowly off of her tongue in a tone that is like honey- coated revulsion.  
  
I don't answer though; I simply lower my head, closing my eyes as I let out a shaky sigh.  
  
"Am I HURTING you? Holding you too TIGHTLY? So SORRY. Please FORGIVE me."  
  
She's never sounded this sardonic before.  
  
Something's going on here.  
  
As she shoves me away from her she laughs slightly and straightens to her feet, "Can you ever forgive me?"  
  
I slide forward in the filthy, odorous concoction of mud, blood, and rainwater and sit up quickly, spluttering and wiping the slime form my face.  
  
She snickers derisively, shaking her head as she crouches before me, "You're pathetic."  
  
I slide away from her until my back is against the wall and wipe new tears from my eyes, suddenly unable to keep from crying.  
  
That just gives her more fuel, but I just can't help it.  
  
She cocks her head and pouts in mock sympathy, clicking her tongue, "Are you going to cry now? Has this all suddenly become far too much for you?"  
  
In this past week (has it only been a week? It seems so much longer!) I've never let her see me cry. Never shed a tear in front of her.  
  
And now I just can't stop the rivers of tears coursing down my cheeks and I start sobbing, abruptly realizing how scared I really feel. It's suddenly as if I see how close I am to dearth, as if I'm aware of what I've been through, and it's just too much to handle.  
  
I try hard to stop as she pulls me to my feet and we force our way into the first of the jailhouses, but all I can do is follow helplessly along, my wails only quieting when she finally slaps a hand over my mouth and snaps at me to hush.  
  
  
  
I can feel her tears trickling down her cheeks and over my hand and I pause in the doorway of one of the jail rooms, my eyes adjusting to the shadows, my ears straining to hear over the muffled sound of the child's cries.  
  
I can't take much more of this.  
  
It isn't just the sound that drives me to anger, but the fact that she is completely useless to me like this.  
  
I may as well just kill her and be done with it.  
  
However, I know that this is not Eric's plan, and so instead I try to compromise, something I wish I never had to even think of.  
  
Turning so that she is backed into a corner and she is facing me, I cup her face in my hands and shush her again, thinking how very m,uch I sound like my own mother when I do.  
  
"Stop that," I say forcefully, forcing her chin up so that I can see her eyes, "You're going to get us caught, and I swear that if so much as a simple JANITOR comes in because he heard you COUGHING, I will break every single bone in your body."  
  
She knows I'm capable of it.  
  
So do I.  
  
That catches her attention enough to silence her wails, but the tears continue flowing, and her eyes hold the dull look of someone who's given up all life.  
  
Remembering full-well what Eric told me in the first place, and feeling not even the slightest twinge of guilt, I finish by promising the one thing I know will get her to do what I want: "However, if you stay silent..." I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers and smile softly, "...I'll bring you home to your family."  
  
Immediately, her eyes light up and she looks me full in the face for the first time tonight, her countenance a facade of anticipation and slight distrust, "Y-you're not lying? You mean it?"  
  
"Of course. Why would I lie?"  
  
She's still slightly skeptical.  
  
She's a little brighter than I thought.  
  
Well, if there's one thing I don't do, it's lie.  
  
I won't lie to this girl.  
  
I'll take her home to her family.  
  
I know how demonic and cruel my grin is, but I can't help it; I let it slide gracefully onto my lips and nod innocently, "Yes. I promise to you that I will take you home to your parents—your entire family—IF you're silent and IF you finish helping these prisoners escape. If I don't keep my word to you, then it's a direct curse on my honor and on my heritage for years to come. I swear to you."  
  
That gets her.  
  
She eyes me for a second longer, and then averts her eyes, softly murmuring, "What do you want me to do now?"  
  
This is too easy.  
  
  
  
I remember Penny.  
  
I see her on the box.  
  
It's my movie box.  
  
She's getting free on the box, riding Medusa's motorboat, riding to freedom, going back to the orphanage where her future parents wait for her.  
  
A single tears slides down my cheek and lands in the rain puddle, along with the sheets of water falling from the sky.  
  
I can't move.  
  
Whether it's from the agonizing beating I just received, the numbing of my body, or the shock stealing through me, I'm as still and limp as a rag doll.  
  
I really hate that acronym.  
  
It's been used so many times.  
  
But what else is limp, really, but a rag doll?  
  
I glance weakly over to my hand which lies inches form my face, half submerged in the rubble of what used to be my house.  
  
It doesn't look like my hand anymore.  
  
It looks like someone else's.  
  
I try to wiggle my fingers, to make sure it is my hand.  
  
It isn't.  
  
It's my little brother's.  
  
I want to look away, but I can't.  
  
Not until Mystique comes over and turns my face away with her hand, "I came to say goodbye, Rachael."  
  
She still says my name in that way that I hate.  
  
She's still smiling that way that makes me feel sick.  
  
I can't look at her.  
  
She kisses my cheek sardonically and whispers in my ear, "Give up, Rachael. Now's not the time to keep up your tenacity. You have nothing to live for. We made sure of it. Now just give it up."  
  
Then she's gone.  
  
I can hear the car revving up and pulling away, with her and Eric and the rest of the mutants I helped escape all leaving me alone to die.  
  
I want to die.  
  
I want to die so much.  
  
I want to join my family under the remains of my house.  
  
I want to just crawl under there and curl up and die.  
  
I look up at the sky, watching as endless spears of rain are hurled down to hit me in the face.  
  
Slowly I close my eyes.  
  
"Let me die," I pray softly.  
  
Then, it's all over.  
  



	2. Chapter One

And now, the next chapter.  
  
*drum roll, trumpet blast, blablabla*  
  
Ok, so whatchall think? Good? Great? The best? REVIEW! LOL! (  
  
Pendragon: THANX for REVIEWING! Makes me so GLAD! You're reviews really do brighten my days! Thank you so much! *grins really big obnoxious grin*  
  
  
  
Chapter One  
  
The mission was one of the worst the X-Men had ever been called to do.  
  
Why?  
  
Simply because it was new to them, something they'd never done before.  
  
Never had they had to search through the remnants of a house for the bodies of people, to see if anyone was alive.  
  
Really, they didn't see a point to it, but they had obediently trudged over to the demolished and body-strewn remains of the Johansen Manor, where they first had to swim through the crowds of onlookers and TV reporters before they could even get close to the police-blocked jumble of bricks and glass that had once been one of the most beautiful houses in Westchester.  
  
The entire horrible 'accident' had been on the news and in the newspaper for only a day, and already it was the top discussion in all of New York.  
  
The Johansen family was well-known, not only because Mr. Johansen owned most of the houses and land in Westchester, but also because of the fact that their family had lived in Westchester for generations.  
  
To see the entire family buried under the relics of their beautiful manor was a devastating tragedy, and almost everyone was gathered outside the cast-iron gates, watching as the X-Men strained to move heaps of the house away to reveal the family's bodies.  
  
One by one, the family was revealed and taken away on stretchers, their faces covered by white sheets: Mr. Johansen, Mrs. Johansen, Michael Johansen Jr., Peter Johansen, little Matthew, and the butler and maids.  
  
As the day wore on, more and more people began to trickle off, not wanting to be hit by the promised downpour of rain, knowing that the 'important' family members were already found; all that were left now were the rest of the servants.  
  
The Johansen family's one sadness in life was that they'd never had a daughter.  
  
Mrs. Johansen had been especially devastated by this, and she'd never been truly happy in life, going about the house with thoughtful melancholy, her eyes filled with every mother's desire for a little girl.  
  
Now, it was far too late for her wishes to come true; she was now being carted off to the morgue, where she would soon be prepared for her very regal funeral. Ororo Monroe knew nothing about the Johansen's except what she'd heard on the news, and as she helped her teammates dig up the remains of what must have been a great and well-known family, she felt a terrible ache in her chest; what else would they have been able to do if they'd been allowed a few more years on earth?  
  
After a while the tedious task grew too much for her and she went off to a secluded corner, leaning against the edge of what used to be the roof.  
  
Kurt Wagner saw her standing there and immediately went over, his eyes wide with concern as he slipped an arm around her shoulders, "Are you alright, Mien Fraulein?"  
  
Ororo nodded slowly, hugging herself and sighing, "Yes, I'm alright. I just...I need a break is all."  
  
Kurt nodded in understanding, squeezing her shoulders sympathetically, "Alright. I'll be right over there, if you need me."  
  
Ororo nodded, forcing a grateful smile as Kurt slipped silently away.  
  
"She doin' ok?" Logan grunted as he hoisted a chunk of concrete onto his shoulders.  
  
Kurt shook his head sadly, "I think she is being reminded of her childhood. Of...of when her parents died."  
  
Logan, muscles straining and veins flexing in his large arms, groaned as he tossed his load over to a pile of bricks, "Yea, I was worried that would happen. Poor 'Ro. Maybe it was a bad idea t' let her come?"  
  
Kurt sighed, stretching before he reached down to assist Logan, "Yah, but she's just been so bent on helping out, especially on this. Like it's something personal she needs to defeat."  
  
"If that's the case," Logan replied, "then she'll beat it. She always does."  
  
Kurt nodded absently in response, turning his eyes over to his dear friend.  
  
He couldn't help but to notice how beautiful Ororo looked.  
  
Sitting regally, with her back straight and her head bent slightly, her slender body seemed made of stone, her skin reflecting the sun's rays so as to give her the appearance of marble. Her beautiful, purely white hair shimmered ethereally in the light of the morning, cascading down and over her shoulders, partially hiding her heart-shaped face. Slowly, she turned to look at him, and her sharp blue eyes made his heart skip; he felt his cheeks burn as he grinned shyly, waving.  
  
Her full, painted lips turned up slightly and she wiggled her slim fingers at him, turning her slender neck towards the rising sun.  
  
Kurt beamed.  
  
Logan laughed, "Elf, have you no shame?"  
  
"No, Mien Freund. When it comes to her, I have none."  
  
  
  
The sun was rising with such serenity and beauty, it seemed to Ororo as though it was unaware of the violence and atrocity of the world below it.  
  
Wasn't it aware of how many people were dying below it's rays?  
  
Didn't it know how many children suffered as it sank below the horizon?  
  
Did it ignore the fact that she and the rest of her kind were being persecuted and hated for being born?  
  
She blinked quickly, refusing the tears that threatened to spill over her eyelids, turning away and staring at the ground.  
  
Only an hour before, they had found little Matthew Johansen near this place where she sat.  
  
He'd been crushed in his own bed while he slept.  
  
Poor baby.  
  
Ororo shook her head; sometimes, she wondered if life was worth it.  
  
She jumped slightly at the sound of laughter and looked up, watching as Logan and Kurt spoke together.  
  
She couldn't help but to smile slightly when her eyes caught sight of Kurt; he stood out so much!  
  
His entire thin, wiry form was bathed entirely in navy skin that screamed for attention, and his long, arrow-tipped tail swung back and forth as he worked, unconsciously tipping things over as he walked along. Even from her distance, she could see his glowing yellow eyes and jagged white teeth when he laughed, and his two-fingered hands seemed so out-of-place among the other X-Men's.  
  
She didn't care if other people thought he looked to be an awful demon; she thought he was the sweetest man she'd ever met.  
  
Appearances didn't matter to her.  
  
They never had, and they never would.  
  
Ororo smiled and waved at Kurt as he glanced at her; he returned the gesture with a wide smile.  
  
It was then that Ororo heard the slightest of agonized moans and felt a hand brush against her fingers.  
  
"...Mommy...?"  
  
  
  
Scott Summers had always been known as a leader.  
  
Since his earliest grade school years, before he'd even known he was a mutant, he'd always been the one who had the best games to play and always knew just what to do if the class bully was out prowling for lunch money.  
  
There was an aura around him that seemed to project authority, and his cool exterior and equally calm tone seemed to always calm even the most frightening of circumstances.  
  
Perhaps that was why, even as the X-Men dragged body parts from among the rubble, they managed to stay in control and even have decent conversations and manage a few wry smiles.  
  
Scott had mostly kept an eye on things throughout the day, making sure that things never got out of hand, watching to see that all of his teammates remained safe, and of course helping out with the lifting.  
  
His beautiful wife, Jean Grey-Summers, stayed loyally by his side always, scanning the area telepathically for any sign of life, keeping the entire mess that they worked on from collapsing completely.  
  
They were an exceptional team, the X-Men, though their members may have seemed frightening and even slightly lower than others.  
  
And as Scott looked around him after hours of tedious labor, with sweat trickling down his neck and behind his ruby-quartz sunglasses, he couldn't help gut to grin a little; he was proud of his team.  
  
  
  
Ororo's heart gave a slight start as she glanced quickly down at her hand, all of her muscles tensed and ready to fight whatever monster may have crept up on her.  
  
Next to her fingers, a child's hand lay limply, the fingers slowly curling into a fist of agony.  
  
Ororo's mouth turned sour with bile, "Oh God..."  
  
Immediately she got to her knees, gasping as she began pulling away the heavy loads of rubble that covered the child below her.  
  
There was another soft groan and a whimper.  
  
Ororo's body had been tuned and strengthened from years of crime fighting and super-hero living, but it just wasn't built for lifting large pieces of a house.  
  
However, after a few seconds, she'd gotten quite a few small pieces off and could see into a very small, very tight-fitting ditch that was slowly beginning to fill with water.  
  
Inside that ditch was a young girl, her entire body covered by the ruins of the manor.  
  
All Ororo could see of her were her eyes gazing yearningly up at her.  
  
Ororo pulled desperately at the one mass of wall that had toppled over and pined the child beneath it, pressing her deeper and deeper into the watery mud below.  
  
The girl was starting to sob in terror.  
  
Ororo's muscles screamed for relief as she heaved on the massive chunk, gasping for breath, "Hang on...I'm coming, Sweetie...Hold on, Baby...Oh God, I can't do this alone...KURT! LOGAN! SOMEONE HELP!"  
  
"'Ro?"  
  
Never before had she felt such relief at hearing Logan's voice, "Logan, help me! I can't get this off of her! She'll die, Logan! HELP!"  
  
Ororo wasn't quite certain why she felt such a sudden onslaught of sheer panic; she was normally such a calm and composed person.  
  
However, having absolutely no power to help this little girl was simply driven her to the brink.  
  
Logan appeared instantly, his eyes clouded with concern, "What is it?"  
  
"I found...a girl...Logan...she's trapped...she's dying..."  
  
Logan didn't need any more explanation.  
  
Pushing Ororo none-too-gently aside, he immediately knelt in the mud and gripped the edges of the mass, muscles already starting to strain.  
  
Ororo backed away slightly, trying angrily to calm her racing heart as she grasped the child's hand in her own; it was like holding a block of ice.  
  
Ororo held the girl's hand between both of her own, trying to force warmth into it, "Hang on, Baby...hang on..."  
  
  
  
Hang on, Baby. Hang on.  
  
I hear water dripping inches from my ears.  
  
I've been listening to it for a long time now.  
  
It's grown to be a constant rhythm, the sound waves lapping against my ears as I lie motionlessly.  
  
I can feel my hair moving with the water, and my brain slowly woanders how deep the water I lie in is.  
  
All I know is that it is cold enough to numb the wounds that have blood still trickling from them; I can see scarlet explosions in the water as blood drips from my limply hanging hand.  
  
Someone's holding my hand.  
  
Who?  
  
A lady.  
  
Hang on, Baby. Hang on.  
  
I can taste the stale air that is being crushed from my lungs every second.  
  
I can smell my life being drawn from my lips.  
  
It's not that scary; I've been through worse.  
  
This is like the end of a terrible nightmare; like a final rest after a never-ending battle.  
  
My vision is dimming slowly; the waterfall of light that spilled over me seconds ago is starting to blur.  
  
I'm dying.  
  
Hang on, Baby. Hang on.  
  
I'm numb to every physical sensation.  
  
I can no longer feel the pain.  
  
Thank you, God.  
  
I thought it would never end.  
  
I was glad when the house finally fell; that meant it would bring death with it.  
  
Hang on, baby. Hang on.  
  
I can hear more people above me; more now then just two.  
  
Somehow, they seem familiar to me; like voices from some far-lost dream I've had before.  
  
Maybe they're angels, come to rip me from this living Hell?  
  
That would be nicer.  
  
A smile kisses my lips as my eyes flutter closed and my breath eases from my mouth.  
  
Hang on, Baby. Hang on.  
  
  
  
The X-Men were working as a team, the men almost breaking their backs in an effort of lifting the slab of rock, the women encouraging the child below; thus far, the team had obeyed Scott's quiet order of "no powers; we don't want too much media attention".  
  
However, when they saw the small hand in Ororo's fingers go limp and heard the slightest sigh of death from below, even Scott didn't care about what publicity they may receive.  
  
In fact, it was he who pushed everyone back and reached up to his tear his sunglasses form his eyes.  
  
To most people, this would be no big deal; it would be a simple thing that anyone would do.  
  
However, for Scott Summers, those sunglasses were the only things holding back the optic blasts that shot from his eyes during his every waking hour.  
  
The shades did things for him, magnifying his already handsome features tenfold, hiding his eyes but revealing his chiseled-stone jaw line, the red ruby-quartz of the shades a very good set-off to his wavy auburn hair and well-tanned, muscular body.  
  
Jean leaned in slightly, her life-long wish of seeing his gorgeous eyes overcoming her slight fear of being struck by his blasts, and she smiled when she caught sight of icy-blue pools before a dazzling red beam suddenly erupted, knocking the slab Logan and Kurt held up in half.  
  
After that, it was easy to drag the chunks and pieces of brick away, and as the media cheered loudly, Logan lowered himself precariously into the pit, only to come up seconds later with the child lying lifelessly in his arms.  
  
While the police worked to keep the curious crowd away, Logan laid the girl on the ground and checked for a pulse.  
  
Cursing under his breath, he glanced up at Ororo and shook his head slowly.  
  
She wasn't about to give up that easily.  
  
"Move," she said anxiously, and pushed him aside as he had done to her moments before.  
  
Jean leaned forward restlessly, "'Ro...what are you-?"  
  
"Somebody breathe for me," Ororo interrupted as she hurriedly rolled the girl onto her back.  
  
Although slightly confused as to what Ororo was attempting, Logan knew better than to question her when she was this tenacious: "I will."  
  
  
  
It was the War to End All Wars.  
  
The day was hotter then I'd ever known, heat falling down like water over our heads, sweat making our shirts and hair stick to our skin.  
  
It was looking bad for us.  
  
Matt had a broken leg, his bone splintered from a bad shot wound, and I was carrying him through the creek, the once-icy water now warm as it seeped through my rolled-up-to-the-knees jeans.  
  
I had a bad scratch on my arm and my T-shirt was torn in the side; my shoes were soaked through.  
  
Matt's weight was making my arms scream for mercy, but I hefted him up and continued on, stumbling over the slippery rocks and crashing on the bank, collapsing in a sweaty, gasping heap.  
  
"I can't make it, Matt," I whispered hoarsely, the words barely whispering past my dry throat and cracked lips, "It's too far..."  
  
"We have to keep on!" Matt urged me, the agony of his wound dripping from his tone, "They'll gain on us..."  
  
"My very blood begs for water..."  
  
He sat up slightly, "The creek is full of it. Shall I get you some?"  
  
I looked up at him and shook my head sighing, "No...that water is poisoned with the blood of our lost men."  
  
He wrinkled his nose, "Gross."  
  
I nodded, "I know."  
  
It was then that the sound of crackling brush and shout8ing reached out ears, and we both sat up, panicked.  
  
We could hear the call of German soldiers, jeering us and calling for us to surrender.  
  
"Run, Matt! Save yourself!" I screamed as I tried to struggle to my feet.  
  
"I can't!" he yowled, "My leg!"  
  
We both shrieked in fear as I reached down and picked him up, racing through the woods.  
  
"Our fort is so close!" I heard him gasp, "I see it! I see it! Safety is near!"  
  
"We'll never make it!" I responded desperately, "They'll shoot us down!"  
  
My feet flew over the loose branches and fallen leaves as the Germans followed us, their cries and laughter only urging my muscles on.  
  
"There!" Matt cried joyfully and pointed, "Our flag!"  
  
I saw what he was gesturing to and felt my hopes swell; maybe we WOULD make it!  
  
I could hear the German's voices getting louder and their gunshots bounced form the treetops above us.  
  
"Hurry! They're gaining!" Matt shouted as he glanced over my shoulder.  
  
"I'm going fast as I can!"  
  
The bullet hit my side just as the fort came into sight.  
  
I gave a sharp cry and crashed to the ground, my face landing in the dirt.  
  
"No! Please, we're almost there!"  
  
"I can't make it," I gasped, clutching my bleeding wound, "You go...go, Matt...before they see you...!"  
  
"I can't go without you!"  
  
Tears welled in his eyes, and I reached up and patted his cheek, "Sure you can...win this...win it...for America!"  
  
His eyes filled with great resolve and bravery then, and I grinned as he laboriously stood and limped over to the ladder, grunting as he pulled himself up towards our flag.  
  
The Germans reached me and laughed, certain of victory; it was then that they realized they only had one of us.  
  
"Where is the other soldier?" they demanded, aiming a loaded rifle at my head.  
  
I looked at them stubbornly, "He is gone, Fools! We have won!"  
  
I heard Matt's triumphant cry just as I was about to blasted.  
  
The German's looked up as Matt held up our flag, shouting, "FOR THE LAAAAND OF THE FREEEEE! AAND THE HOOOOOOME OF THE BRAAAAAAAAAVE!"  
  
I smiled triumphantly up at the German's awe-struck faces, "Give me liberty...or...give...me...death..."  
  
I fell over as blackness overtook me.  
  
I heard Mom and Dad burst into a round of applause and laughter as I opened my eyes and, taking Peter's hand, stood, bowing.  
  
Matt came down with the flag in-hand, lifting it up for everyone to see as Mom and Dad cheered.  
  
"Excellent work, Kids!" Dad exclaimed, running over and hugging us all, "Very well done!"  
  
"Thanks," I said, blushing slightly as Mom kissed my cheek, "You're born to be an actress, Darling."  
  
"Thanks, Mom." My eyes shone brightly as I grinned, "But I think I'm gonna be a superhero instead."  
  
Of course the usual contempt crossed her face as she rolled her eyes, "Not more of this talk..."  
  
"I am," I persisted eagerly as I took her hand and followed the boys to the house, "I'm gonna join the X-Men!"  
  
"Goodness, Child, how many times must I tell you-"  
  
"Aw, Mom, leave her alone. Let the midget dream," Michael laughed, ruffling my hair as he rushed past.  
  
I giggled and chased after him, "I'll show YOU midget!"  
  
"Rachael, Michael, now stop! You're going to fall!"  
  
"Michelle, let them have their fun," Dad murmured as the pother two boys joined us in our chase.  
  
"Can't catch me, can't catch me!"  
  
"I can too! You're going DOWN!"  
  
I struggled to catch up with my older brother, panting as he clambered up into the roof and looked down at me, grinning lopsidedly, "You scared of heights, Midget?"  
  
"Hush up, Mike! The bigger they are, the harder they fall! And I'm gonna MAKE you fall!"  
  
I beamed as I struggled onto the roof, Peter helping Matt up and following him aboard.  
  
"Ooh! She made it!" Michael looked truly impressed, and I felt pride swell in me, "Let's see if she can get back down!"  
  
I frowned slightly as he slid easily off of our low roof, landing on the ground and glancing up at me impishly.  
  
I gave him a haughty look and started across the singles, my wet shoes squeaking slightly on the eaves.  
  
"Careful, Rae," Peter called from behind me, and his tone sounded worried, "Don't fall..."  
  
Right about then, Mom and Dad crested the hill leading up to our house and they saw us all.  
  
Mom gave a sharp gasp and shouted, "Rachael Catherine Johansen get down this second!"  
  
"How many times do I have to tell you to stay off of the roof?" Dad asked angrily, starting forward.  
  
I started to reply, but it was then that I felt my foot slide ever so slightly over one of my shoelaces.  
  
The next few seconds seemed like forever.  
  
With a sickening pitch of my gut, I felt my entire body lurch to one side of the roof, and my feet left the shingles.  
  
I heard mom's loud shriek pierce the hot air as I tumbled from my perch, eyes wide and arms flailing.  
  
My stomach and heart seemed to fly into my mouth as I flew through the air, rolling slowly over so that I could see the ground come up to greet me.  
  
I landed, felt the slightest explosion of pain in my head, and then knew no more.  
  
  
  
Ororo Monroe had always had good control of her power.  
  
For as long as she could remember, she could always create the slightest of rain showers, or the most terrifying of hurricanes.  
  
Her abilities, to control and alter the air currents and to control weather, gave her the codename Storm.  
  
One of her favorite parts of creating a storm was the lightning.  
  
The crackle of electricity, the feeling of warmth that raced through her body, the light that burst from her fingers, all gave her a sense of excitement that nothing else could accomplish.  
  
And at the moment, she knew, lightning could be the only thing that would be able to save this little girl.  
  
Logan was leaning over her, breathing when asked to, looking up at Ororo with the slightest of confusion but ultimate trust; years of teamwork and friendship had earned that.  
  
Ororo took a deep breath and laid her hands on her girl's chest; licking her lips, she motioned for everyone to move away, and then she pressed down, hard.  
  
The familiar sputters of power danced instantly from her fingertips, sinking into the girl's flesh, causing her to convulse slightly; after a second, she checked for a pulse, and she found none, repeated the process.  
  
Wordlessly, Logan continued rescue breathing.  
  
  
  
I never even knew what happened after I fell; just that Mom and Dad called an ambulance and that paramedics came to save me.  
  
Matt told me later, when I was lying in the hospital, that IU had died, and that the medics had taken out some kind of machine that had chocked me.  
  
It had scared him, because every time they pushed the paddles on me, I had jumped and there had been a strange humming sound, and then a loud beep.  
  
Matt said he never wanted me to die again.  
  
I said I didn't think I wanted to either.  
  
Later, though, when I was lone in my room, I realized something.  
  
Somewhere in my mind, I had felt those electric bolts racing through my veins and to my heart, trying to jump-start it.  
  
I'd felt them trying to save me.  
  
Trying to bring me back to life.  
  
Maybe that's why I recognize this feeling now.  
  
Maybe that's why I'm fighting the urge to wake up.  
  
Maybe that's why I know I'm dead...and I'm smiling.  
  
  
  
Jean saw her best friend struggling against tears as she again forced electricity through the little girl's body, sweat trickling freely down her forehead and neck.  
  
She almost reached out to squeeze her shoulder, to hug her, to let her know that it was too late; this girl's brainwaves were long-gone, and she was just too-long dead to be brought back.  
  
She knew, though, that Ororo wouldn't listen.  
  
She would tear away from her best friend and continue on until she passed out form exhaustion.  
  
Even Logan had stopped breathing for the child now his hops for the girl diminished; he stood off to the side with his arms crossed; he was trying to keep his emotions inside.  
  
Jean bit her lip as Kurt met her eyes with his and shook his head sadly; his thoughts were obvious even without her telepathy.  
  
He was worried about 'His Fraulein ', perhaps even more than Jean was, and he hadn't even known her for long.  
  
Scott wrapped his arm around Jean's waist and held her to him, silently watching Ororo struggle with Death itself, and Jean rested her head against his chest, sighing unhappily.  
  
The entire team, with her now, knew that they only way they could help was to watch in silence and sadness; they knew the girl was gone forever.  
  
Imagine their surprise when her eyes snapped open and she inhaled sharply, gagging and coughing up muddy water.  
  
She was trembling from cold and pain and terror, tears streaming down her cheeks as Ororo, her fatigue and obvious anxiety radiating from her like heat, gently lifted her heads onto her lap and smoothed her wet hair away form her face, "It's ok, now. YUou're going to be alright."  
  
For the rest of the civilians and policemen, who had been watching with silent devastation, this was a great miracle, an obvious act of God, and they cheered and shouted appreciation loudly, amazed by Storm's Herculean effort; the X-Men, however, could take no time for rejoicing.  
  
Instead, they took the child and brought her to the X-jet, the plane they used to travel long distances.  
  
With the crowd roaring approval and thanks, and with the child once-again unconscious in Ororo's lap, Scott switched the ignition on and sighed anxiously; now if they could just get home in time to help her before she died again...  
  



End file.
